Poems and Prose Writings, Svazek 2

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Baker and Scribner, 1850
 

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Strana 15 - Sometime, we see a cloud that's dragonish, A vapour, sometime, like a bear, or lion, A tower'd citadel, a pendant rock, A forked mountain, or blue promontory With trees upon 't, that nod unto the world, And mock our eyes with air : thou hast seen these signs ; They are black vesper's pageants.
Strana 69 - Although I joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract to-night : It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden, Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be, Ere one can say — It lightens.
Strana 302 - In rural occupation there is nothing mean and debasing. It leads a man forth among scenes of natural grandeur and beauty ; it leaves him to the workings of his own mind, operated upon by the purest and most elevating of external influences. Such a man may be simple and rough, but he cannot be vulgar.
Strana 137 - Who builds a church to God, and not to Fame, Will never mark the marble with his name : Go, search it there, where to be born and die, Of rich and poor makes all the history ; Enough, that Virtue fill'd the space between ; Prov'd by the ends of being, to have been.
Strana 178 - Yet here for ever, ever must I stay ; Sad proof how well a lover can obey...
Strana 139 - Fairest of stars, last in the train of night, If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere, While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.
Strana 205 - Smooth'd up with snow ; and, what is land, unknown, What water of the still unfrozen spring, In the loose marsh or solitary lake, Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils.
Strana 182 - What though no credit doubting wits may give? The fair and innocent shall still believe. Know then, unnumber'd spirits round thee fly, The light militia of the lower sky: These, though unseen, are ever on the wing, Hang o'er the Box, and hover round the Ring. Think what an equipage thou hast in air, And view with scorn two pages and a chair.
Strana 184 - Her tongue bewitch'd as oddly as her eyes, Less wit than mimic, more a wit than wise ; Strange graces still, and stranger flights she had, Was just not ugly, and was just not mad ; Yet ne'er so sure our passion to create, As when she touch'd the brink of all we hate.
Strana 344 - Embattled in her field ; and the humble shrub, And bush with frizzled hair implicit : last Rose, as in dance, the stately trees, and spread Their branches hung with copious fruit, or gemm'd Their blossoms : with high woods the hills were crown'd ; With tufts the valleys and each fountain side ; With borders long the rivers : that earth now Seem'd like to heaven, a seat where gods might dwell, Or wander with delight, and love to haunt Her sacred shades...

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